


Thank You For Being a Fiend

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Golden Girls, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Attempt at Humor, But done very respectfully, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Real people, References to Real People, Sarcasm from all characters, backstage drama, lots of misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley had two missions in life. Become a successful writer for his favorite television show and try to survive long enough for at least one meaningful romance. Apparently both may occur.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raechem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raechem/gifts).



> And here it is. Finally after a huge amount of fretting and a giant thank you to Raechem to beta reading this work, the Good Omens working on the show Golden Girls backstage Hollywood Human AU crossover that nobody whined for but me!
> 
> Especially me. *clears throat loudly*
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos if so inclined, and all incidents and situations here are part of my incredibly odd mind only! Dedicated to Raechem who is too wonderful to this fandom. 
> 
> To the world....

To say that Los Angeles had anything to do with angels - fallen or otherwise - was a lie that Aziraphale had never properly swallowed. The traffic was particularly a situation that caused him to barely stop swearing in the backseat of Uber cars. Not that he was _always_ able to keep his annoyances in check. He wasn’t any more of a saint than any of the other scowling faces in the neighboring cars trapped in the hell known as Interstate 405. 

He stopped himself from screaming by doing what came the most natural to him. He ate sweets to muffle the complaints. Usually, coffee cake and blueberry muffins made the best silencers. Mostly due to their inherent soft texture and oversweetened qualities. 

“Almost sounds like you’re describing yourself.”

Aziraphale tilted his head up from his overfilled plate of scrambled eggs to stare pointedly at Tracy’s giggling face, though the menace of his glower was lost with the bit of cheddar cheese trapped at the corner of his mouth. Then lost completely to that same piece of cheddar cheese wiped away by Tracy’s folded napkin. 

This was the usual routine. Aziraphale would get up in the morning, shower, brush his teeth, get dressed, be picked up by Tracy early enough to be able to grab breakfast before work and prepare himself to be teased by her at least a dozen times. Two dozen if she was _really_ on a roll. And she usually was. It helped that she had one of those types of faces that were made for being able to get away with anything. Ageless in that Old Hollywood kind of way that had people stop and smile at her just because she might have been someone important in the previous decades. Eyebrows and lip liner penciled within an inch of their life, and hair always a color that would be perfectly comfortable in the bands of a rainbow. And her slender fingers and wrists wrapped in jewels from some previous husband or current boyfriend never failed to turn heads either. Not that Aziraphale _minded_ any of it in a practical sense. You got all sorts in the city, and there were perks in your coworker essentially being the chattery embodiment of all things Tinseltown. 

“Your frown lines are showing love,” she cooed. That same napkin used on Aziraphale’s face now waved at a passing server who quickly swapped it out for a clean one they dashed off to deal with a much rowdier table. “Try to buck up. We’ve got the weekend nearly on our doorstep.”

Tracy lifted her mimosa in her heavily manicured hand for a toast. The clink of Aziraphale’s teacup sounded out of place but she ignored it. 

“Thursday has hardly started,” Aziraphale muttered. “And there are still no new prospects for the writing position. We’re doomed before even the start of the season.”

Aziraphale stared at his plate as if he was going to have a visit with the guillotine. It must have been bad enough to have Tracy’s hand leave the mimosa to make the long travel to his own twitching fingers. 

“You’ll find someone suitable,” she said. “You’re always the one to pull off a miracle at the last possible moment, right? In the meantime, Anathema and Gabriel can pull up the slack until…”

Tracy trailed off that the incredulous look Aziraphale was throwing her way. She bit her bottom lip and effectively destroyed her overpriced scarlet lipstick until the next reapply. 

“Right...maybe not,” she conceded. “Stall until next week is an option? I can pretend to have lost the newest batch of resumes in one of my handbags. I’m senile and doddery. Beez wouldn’t even bat an eye at that.”

Aziraphale was desperate enough to let this potential scheme enter his mind for the briefest of time. Yes, it was official that if he was actually considering plan concocted by Tracy Madame, then he had gone completely round the bend. Well, at least he had company on his trip into insanity. 

“Ok, a new idea,” Tracy tried again. “I _hit_ Beez with my handbag instead. It’s heavy enough to knock them out for at least a few hours needed for you to start your escape. New York is lovely in the autumn months. Or head back to London? You haven’t been back in ages as I recall.”

A curl of a smile came to Aziraphale’s mouth without him really wanting it. That was another perk of being around Tracy. She was just about magical in her way of making oncoming catastrophes nearly bearable. At least she made the impact somewhat more sparkly, and that was exactly what Aziraphale needed right now. Along with the two blueberry muffins he ordered as take away because if he was about to be beheaded careerwise then fuck it to calories. 

Besides, Tracy was right. He had gotten himself out of circumstances far grimmer than this one. He had survived California for nearly twenty years with his reputation mostly intact. Best case scenario: a suitably good writer would somehow stumble into his office before the actual end of the week. Worst-case scenario: He’d be fired and live in Tracy’s walk-in closet. He’d make a small bed out of her oversized glittery handbags until he somehow made his way back to England. 

A solid plan if he thought so himself. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the hits, comments and kudos. It helps me to know that there are breathing people out there in the darkened theater as I perform something that may or not be Hamlet. 
> 
> As always, a bow of gratitude to Raechem my beta reader. She is always willing to laugh at my bad jokes and misplaced puns.

This was not the way to start a Thursday for Crowley. The first shitty bit was that he was up before noon. Voluntarily at that. The second shitty bit was his car had decided for the third time this week to stop being a reliable way around the city. And what was the fucking point of having a vintage Bentley if you couldn’t cruise around in it? Along with giving small smiles and waves to the beautifully plastic people near Rodeo Drive even though you barely had the petrol to keep it moving on a daily basis? Not that they knew that, of course. 

What assisted in the deception was that Crowley knew how to dress. Always slinky in tight-fitting pants and wearing sunglasses even at night. Unfortunately, none of his clothing was meant for properly fixing a leaking radiator. 

So he did what any sensible man in his mid-forties did when having a moment. He kicked the front bumper with all the force he could muster, scream out a few very choice swear words, and patiently wait for death. Hopefully, Death would be driving in a somewhat fashionable vehicle. Fuck if Crowley would have to meet his maker in something as pedestrian as a minivan. 

This was supposed to be the start of something better for him. The first time he grabbed Fate by the figurative balls and squeezed hard enough to get him an assault and battery charge. Perhaps that was a little overly dramatic, but that was pretty much Crowley’s modus operandi. It went with all of the rest of the emotional baggage.

“No, I don’t know where the fuck I am,” Crowley said through incredibly gritted teeth into his car phone. “I thought you knew your way around LA.”

“That address you gave me the first time was to that studio you keep ramblin’ on about,” Shadwell grunted on the other end of the phone. “I’m still a good twenty minutes away, lad. And are you kickin’ the car?”

A bolt of pain shot through Crowley’s left foot as he swore again. This time with the accompanying hopping up and down on the other foot to verify to all of the otherwise innocent bystanders that this is what a genuine nervous breakdown looked like. Not as if they hadn’t seen worse on the likes of Rodeo Drive anyway. 

“Just do what you can when you get here,” Crowley snarled. A new billow of steam from the Bentley hissed in what Crowley chalked up to solidarity of Shadwell’s ineptitude to give this crisis the respect it deserved. “I’m already an hour late to get to that  _ same  _ studio you ended up at.”

If this were a movie, this would be the perfect time for Crowley’s character to be given a helping hand. Usually in the form of an attractive co-star to pull up and ask if Crowley needed a ride somewhere. There would be charming banter and eventual romance and misunderstandings along the way, with the ‘Happily Ever After’ including character Crowley getting his dream job and marrying his meet-cute. 

Reality instead was Shadwell laughing like a madman and Crowley saying a lot of things that he would probably have the repairs to his Bentley triple in price. Well, that would be  _ future  _ Crowley’s problem, and present Crowley always thought that guy was a bit of a git. 

Taxis on side streets surrounding Rodeo Driver were a rare thing. Somewhat like trying to find good tea shops in LA was also a scavenger hunt. As if the United States were discovering more intricate ways of punishing the British over 200 years later. Gratefully alcohol was always an option, and that’s  _ exactly _ what Crowley needed after all of this shit. 

“Need a lift?”

The taxi driver gave Crowley’s car a sympathetic look before glancing back over to Crowley’s panicked expression. Well, the man wasn’t exactly a co-star, but Crowley would take the ride. With a quick hang up on his car phone and placing the car keys under the mat, Crowley hopped into the back seat of the taxi and barked out the studio address. 

“That’s the place they film The Golden Girls,” the driver said happily. “Love that show. Watch it with the wife every week it’s on. Going for a tour then?”

Crowley hummed what he hoped would be enough to subtly hint that he wasn’t really in the mood to chit chat. To add to the illusion he busied himself with rechecking the small notepad in his jacket pocket. Then scribbled a few more lines of an episode idea that he had if he somehow was able to get past the cartoonishly bulky guard at the front gate. 

“Oh,” the driver said in recognition, and fuck if Crowley needed any of this now. “I bet you’re trying for that writer’s job they’ve been making announcements about?”

Apparently this taxi driver was used to chatting with his passengers regardless. 

Fine. 

“That’s the plan, yeah. Sent in my resume over two weeks ago and no follow up. Not that I expected one, but I’m trying to see if I can get a hold of someone in the hiring department. Give them a face to go along with the name.”

Crowley’s sunglasses helped him be able to watch people without them realizing it, so the small flicker of concern on the taxi driver’s face hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

“You don’t think that’s a good idea, then?”

“No,” the driver said quickly. “Not that at all. It’s just...I’ve heard that the show's editor is a hard ass when it comes to talent. Rumor has it he’s the  _ real  _ reason that they lost Newton Pulsifer. Too many arguments about the scripts.”

Evidently God was being more benevolent to Crowley than he originally thought. This driver - Eddie Shores by the name on the hack license - seemed to be a bevy of useful information. It was only respectful for Crowley to take advantage of it. Turn the charm up to seven on the dial. 

“I thought that Pulsifer left because of him dating another one of the writers,” Crowley mused. “Least that’s what I saw in the tabloids. They usually get the sexual exploits of gossip more or less on the nose.”

Eddie chuckled. The next stop he made at a red light he swiveled in his seat to look at Crowley directly. “Nope. That was definitely happening, but it’s the show's editor who pushed him out. The man can’t deal with any conflict at all. Like he’s some sort of expert on moral authority or something. Still...the show is great even with him at the helm so he must be doing something right.”

The rest of the car ride is fairly quiet with the only sounds coming from the hustle and bustle of LA and the flips of Crowley’s little notepad as he wrote in a few of Eddie’s more useful details. Including the words ‘be wary of Aziraphale Guard. Might be a nutter!’ at the top of the next page. 


End file.
